


Dreamlock

by Shreiking_Beauty



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bad Health Habits, Character Death In Dream, Dream World, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Johnlock, Hurt/Comfort, Hypnosis, Lucid Dreaming, M/M, OOC Sherlock, Psychological Drama, Romance, Stubborn Sherlock, Weird, concerned john, sleeping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-12
Updated: 2014-09-11
Packaged: 2018-02-12 21:50:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 7,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2125863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shreiking_Beauty/pseuds/Shreiking_Beauty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock doesn't like to sleep. It takes valuable time away from cases and experiments. But even Sherlock can appreciate collapsing on his bed for 15 hours of undisturbed sleep after a particularly long and taxing case.</p>
<p>After one such occasion, Sherlock finds himself in a perfect world, where people respect and admire him. The thing that makes it most perfect, however, is his fully-formed romantic relationship with John. Upon awakening, he finds himself back in reality, but when he discovers this Johnlock-filled dream world continues every time he falls asleep, he becomes addicted to it and neglects his normal life in favor of drug-induced sleeping.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lucid Dreaming

**Author's Note:**

> HI! I have this same story posted on FanFiction.net. First time posting on AO3!!! I hope you all enjoy! Please comment!
> 
> I've been playing around with POV in this story, so it changes quite a bit, sorry!!!

Sherlock's POV  
I yawned and slid between the sheets of my bed. I didn't much care for sleeping; it was dull and boring, a waste of time. But the last case was long and exhausting, so it felt good to be wrapped up in my soft warm bed. I felt the familiar wave of sleep wash over me, my thoughts made less and less sense, I felt like I was floating . . . then, it started to slip away. Not completely, just enough for me to be aware of my surroundings. I growled to myself; it couldn't possibly be morning already!

I started when I felt a strong arm snake around my waste and heard a sleepy chuckle. “'Morning, Sherlock.”

“ . . . J-John?” He chuckled again.

“Well who else would be in your bed?” He kissed me delicately on the cheek. “ You haven't been fooling around, have you?”

“ . . . I'm confused . . .”

“You're just sleepy. I'll get some coffee in you.” John climbed out of bed, wearing nothing but his bright red pants, and exited the room. I immediately grabbed my phone from the nightstand. The calender read March 25, 2014.

“Impossible!” I said aloud. Yesterday had been March 25th! I calculated the different possibilities. It was the same year, so I hadn't just forgotten a year. I could remember everything about last night, and John hadn't come into my room, I was sure of it. So . . . I was dreaming. “A lucid dream . . . a completely lucid dream!”

I smiled to myself: I could do anything in a lucid dream, and I intended to take full advantage of it. There was only one thing I wanted to do, and luckily it seemed as though John was more than willing to participate. But before I wrapped him in my arms and breathed him in and savored him until I had to wake up, I decided to test it, just in case.

I pulled my sheet around me, also in nothing but my pants, and descended the stairs slowly. I noticed that there was still a slight haze around me, but my muscles weren't sore or tired: more confirmation that I was asleep. The smell of hot coffee greeted me in the kitchen, as well as the pleasant sight of John wearing my robe. I carefully walked up behind him, close enough to feel his warmth.

Much to my delight, John leaned back into me. “Trust the promise of coffee to get you out of bed,” he commented.

“I'm more interested in the promise of you,” I said, trying to be flirtatious. John turned around to encircle my waist with his arms.

“You're terrible at flirting,” he said, pecking me on the lips, “but I love you anyway.”

I felt like the world melted into pure bliss when he said he loved me. For a moment I was stunned, staring at him and letting everything else in existence slip away, because nothing was important enough to exist outside of John. After a moment I leaned down and captured his lips in a longing kiss.

“Mmm, the coffee!” John whined around my lips.

“Leave it,” I begged, but he just smiled and got it anyway. I took my mug and followed him to the couch and sat down next to him, practically laying on him, while he turned on the telly.

“You're very affectionate today,” John observed. “Another nightmare?”

“You've no idea.”

“What was it about?”

“It was about . . . a case. But, you didn't love me. We were just friends.” John chuckled and stroked my arm.

“Well, you don't have to worry about that anymore, do you?” My heart sank a little, knowing that eventually I would wake up and it would all be over. I briefly wondered if I was just torturing myself, letting this continue, but I couldn't bear the thought of rejecting him now, so I snuggled closer to him. I even put my coffee down so I could hold him better.  
Later, Lestrade called us to continue the case, which I solved quickly, because I had already solved it when I was awake. Everything was different, though. John sent me little smiles when no one was looking, and no one appeared to know that we were together. That was just the way I liked it. Our own little secret. Besides that, everyone was . . . nice to me. Donovan didn't call me 'Freak', Anderson was actually helpful, and Lestrade complimented me. I rather liked this other world.

We didn't get back to the flat until late, because Lestrade, Anderson, and Donovan invited us out for drinks. John rubbed his eyes tiredly as I pulled off my coat and scarf. “I'm exhausted,” he muttered.

“I feel excellent! This was the best day of my life!” I said, hugging him from behind.

“What made today so special?”

“I had you today, John.”

“Sherlock . . . we've been together for months.” I nodded into his neck sadly, knowing that I'd be waking up soon. “Come on, Sherlock, I'm falling asleep standing here.” He pulled me into his room and started stripping down to his pants. I pulled off my shirt and collapsed on his bed. “You wanna sleep in here?” he asked, seeming surprised.  
“I don't care where we sleep, I just want to cuddle you,” I answered. John turned the light off and slid in next to me. I had the feeling again; the wave of sleep wash over me before subsiding. I stirred, feeling John's arm around my waist suddenly become a pillow. I sat up and looked around, groggy as though I had been asleep all night.  
“John?” I said. I went back over last night in my mind again. We solved the case, went out for drinks, and I fell asleep in John's bed with his arm around me. “John!”  
John opened my door and put his head in. “Hmm?”

“Where-what's happening? How did I get in my bed?”

“You . . . you fell asleep in it, last night. Remember?”

“ . . . where are you going?”

“To work. I actually have a job. Just have some coffee and you'll be fine,” he sighed affectionately and shut the door.

“ . . . It was just a dream,” I told myself quietly. “It's over now.”


	2. Further Data

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for short chapters, this story is very experimental

I thought. All day I sat in my chair, going through my mind palace. More specifically, I was analyzing John's wing. My avatar self ran a hand through my hair tiredly. I had been copying and moving things into a room labled: Evidence that he loves me. 

There just wasn't enough. I wanted to pursue him. I wanted things to be the way things were in my dream. I just couldn't risk him leaving me if I did try to pursue him. Because looming ominously across the hall was a dark room, this one labeled: Evidence that he doesn't love me.

That room was supposed to be small. I wanted it to just be a closet. But there was just so much stuff in there! In the center of the room, the biggest piece, was the phrase “I'm not gay!” with a number 26 beside it. 26 occurrences. There was a small note in this room, stuffed into a corner somewhere, something about how denying it so insistently could be a sign of overcompensation, but it hardly mattered to me. 

The best piece of evidence in this room was not even very impressive at all, but I spent a lot of time with it. It was a memory, the memory of me with my shock blanket, realizing that John had killed someone for me. He looked at me, and I knew then that he really cared for me.

I sighed again and left my mind palace. “So . . . boooooooooored. . .” It was only 1:18; John wouldn't be home for hours. Without hardly thinking, I got up and walked into my room, collapsing on my bed and wrapping myself up in my sheets. Maybe if I could get a nap, just maybe I could have another one of those dreams . . .

It took me a bit longer to fall asleep, my mind was occupied trying to guess what would happen, hoping for the best and fearing the worst, but I eventually relaxed enough to fall asleep. And, like before, I faded right through sleep to being awake on the other side: as it was, it seemed I was changing over from one world to the next.

The other world appeared to parallel the real one, approximately 12 hours behind, because there I lay, next to John in his bed, at 1:43. I stirred, rolling over so I could curl as much as my body into John's so he was wrapped around me.

“Sherlock?” he breathed. “Did I wake you?”

“No . . .” I replied just as quietly. He stroked my arm lovingly.

“Not another bad dream, was it?”

“No, not really, I suppose. Just dull. I couldn't wait to get back to you.” John chuckled almost imperceptibly.

“I'll never understand you.”

“You have to work in the morning,” I observed. He hummed an affirmative.

“But I can't sleep. My head is so full of thoughts. Maybe I'll go downstairs and read a bit until I'm more tired.” I scowled and wrapped my arms around his waist tightly.

“Noooooooooooooooooooo . . . don't go, Jawn,” I whined. “Tell me a story.” He laughed again, a little louder now.

“What did you have in mind?”

“Tell me about when we first started . . . you know . . . this.”

“Like, being together? You already know, you were there!”

“Yes, but I want to hear how you remember it. Tell me like you'd tell someone who wasn't there, like you're writing it on your blog,” I commanded. He sighed and rolled over onto his back, and I adjusted my position so I was cuddling his chest like a pillow. 

“Well, let's see then. It was about five months ago, a bit more . . . beginning of November, wasn't it?” I nodded into him, having no idea. “You'd been acting strange for maybe three months. You were snappy to the girls I brought over, and you either avoided me as much as possible or you wouldn't leave me alone. You seemed almost . . . depressed, dare I say. I told Mycroft about it and – well, you know, he knew what was wrong but he promised you he wouldn't tell me. After a while, you started treating me . . . like, I don't know . . . like I wasn't your friend. Like I was your assistant that you didn't like very much. You only talked to me if it was related to a case or you wanted to make me tea. I was . . . hurt, to say the least.” I noticed John's voice cracking a bit at the memory and held him tighter. “I thought you didn't like me anymore. Then . . . then I got into that accident.”

I felt each of my muscles tense. “Accident?” John sighed impatiently.

“Yes, Sherlock, the accident. Don't tell me you want me to explain that.” I snuggled into him hopefully.

“You don't have to if you don't want to . . .”

“Alright, alright. I was angry with you being so . . . cold to me. I was stewing over it, so I decided to go to work early just to get away from you. I got into a cab, and we were crossing through an intersection . . . I looked out the window, a truck was coming right for me. It hit the cab right where I was sitting. I blacked out immediately. I had internal bleeding and was rushed to emergency surgery. When I woke up, I was so confused . . . but I felt you holding my hand.”

John wriggled down the bed so he could look into my eyes, and his voice softened. “You were sitting next to my bed, asleep, holding my hand, and there were dried tears on your face. I hadn't thought you cared for me enough to even acknowledge that I'd been injured, let alone cry at my bedside. That's when I knew that you loved me, and I loved you, too.”

We laid quietly for a while, our breathing peacefully even. “Sherlock?” John finally breathed. “Are you asleep?” I kept still, and he kissed me on the forehead before getting into a more comfortable position.


	3. Doctor Visit

“Sherlock!”

I jolted out of sleep, suddenly in my own bed again facing a harsh light pouring into my room from my open door, where John was leaning in.

“What? What is it?” I said sleepily.

“It's almost 8. Please don't tell me you've been sleeping all day.”

“I haven't! I was just . . . taking a nap.”

“You? Taking a nap?”

“Yes. Well. I was doing an experiment.”

“Of course, of course. Well, I'll leave you to it, then.”

I got up and sat in the living room so John wouldn't be suspicious, though he didn't seem to concerned. He went about his normal tasks; making tea (for me as well, without even asking), updating his blog, watching a bit of TV, before finally going off to bed around 10. As soon as I heard his bedroom door shut, I hurried to my own room and curled up under the covers.

It took far too long to fall asleep this time. Almost 2 hours. Probably as a result of my nap. Just as I was turning over frustratedly, I ran into a warm body.

“Sorry, Sherlock, I know,” he muttered.

“ . . . know what?” John sighed.

“I need to get up for work.” I whined and tugged on his arm.

“Just skip today!”

“You say that every day, Sherlock. I have to go to work. Heaven knows how you survived all those years without my wallet to dip into every chance you get.”

“It's not my fault. I need things.” John kissed the top of my head.

“I love you Sherlock, but I'm going to work. I'll see you when I get home, okay?” He got up and turned on a lamp, starting to get dressed.

“But that will be in forever!”

“Stop whining, Sherlock. I'm sure you can find something to do.” I pouted on the bed and watched him get dressed. 

“I love you, John.”

“Sherlock, stop. I know what you're doing. I can't be late again.”

“What do you mean? I'm not doing anything,” I argued innocently. John sighed and thought for a moment.

“Alright, just one,” he conceded. I smiled eagerly as he sat down next to me and wondered what 'one' could mean.

Then he leaned forward and pressed his lips into mine. The shock it sent through me dissipated lightening-quick and I pressed into him, entwining our tongues and massaging his lips with my own. I wrapped my arms around him to bring him closer. It only lasted a moment before John pushed me away, laughing.

“Enough, Sherlock, I really have to go! I'm all yours as soon as I get home, I promise!” I sighed and watched him leave. I sat by myself for three hours before getting an idea and making a quick phone call.

==========================================JOHNLOCK========================================

John buzzed for the next patient to come and started organizing his files. Just one more patient until his lunch break, and he could call Sherlock. Hopefully he hadn't set the flat on fire . . . again. He checked his phone and was surprised to see that there wasn't a boat load of texts from Sherlock. Usually he sent him any old thought he could come up with. John wasn't sure if it was for his entertainment (they were, in fact, very entertaining) or for Sherlock to feel less lonely without him. He frowned at the lack of texts until he heard someone clear their throat behind him.

He whirled around to face Sherlock standing in front of the patient's table. “Sh-Sherlock! What are you doing here? And how did you get in without me hearing you?!”

“I'm here because I'm sick. And I got in through the door, you were obviously too busy checking your phone to hear me.”

“Sherlock, are you really sick or did you just want to bug me?” John asked seriously, folding his arms.

“Umm . . . just to be clear, you wish me to tell you the truth and not just what you want to hear, correct?” John nodded. “Well then I may not be considered what you would call ill . . .”  
John walked up to Sherlock and kissed him lightly on the lips. “Would you like to have lunch with me?”


	4. Health Hazard

John's POV  
If I said that less than half of my day was spent worrying over Sherlock, I'd be lying. There wasn't a moment between patients that I didn't wonder if the flat would still be in one piece, or when was the last time Sherlock ate, or if he was injured trying to 'entertain' himself.

These worrisome thoughts were so redundant that by now they were pushed aside as thoughts on the weather or the cleanliness of the room. Rarely was there a specific situation that had me particularly anxious.

Lately, such an occasion had arose (or arisen or risen, idk). Sherlock viewed sleeping, like eating, to be a mundane activity that was unfortunately necessary, so he vehemently avoided it until the last second when he looked about to collapse and his sentences started making less and less sense, at which time he was usually tired enough for me to just gently push him into his room and onto his bed, where he would collapse out cold. Other times I was able to convince him that even his brilliant mind could screw up very important data if he didn't get enough sleep.

Naturally, when I got home from the surgery and found Sherlock asleep in bed, I assumed he was ill. He said it was an experiment, so I figured if he was ill and didn't want to tell me, at least he seemed to be taking care of himself instead of over-exerting his body and making everything much worse.

It didn't stop there, however. He slept through the whole night, and again most of the next day and all of that night, too. As a week passed away, suddenly it became more usual to see him sleeping than awake. It almost seemed that he only woke up to appear normal to me, and could never wait to get back to sleep. He was obviously hiding something, because he acted as though he hadn't changed his sleep schedule at all, like he had always slept sixteen hours a day.

It was incredibly disturbing to me when he turned down a rather interesting case from Lestrade, not even claiming it 'dull', he merely said he was busy. Busy sleeping. He had even stopped all experiments.

It was a complete reversal. Instead of him seeing sleep as being an unfortunate obligation and trying to stay awake as much as possible, he slept as much as possible and only woke when it was necessary, when his body ignored his wishes and threw him back to full consciousness instinctively.

One day, as I was removing the garbage from Sherlock's bin, I noticed at the top an empty bottle of a very powerful sleep medication. The sight made me feel sick inside, and I couldn't even look Sherlock in the eye without a lump of despair rising in my throat.

On the weekend, I finally had the last straw, and that was when I was able to see his health deteriorating. It is not healthy to only eat and sleep every once in a blue moon, but to suddenly and completely change that habit (except, of course, the eating: I still had to bargain with him about that), his body must have gone on a riot!

I first noticed that he wasn't walking quite right. It hit me all of a sudden; which isn't surprising because the thing that got me noticing was when Sherlock ran into the door jam and nearly fell over. Then I realized that he was walking slowly, almost like he was dizzy, and he didn't stay standing for long. 

As he sat down in front of me, a pang of anxiety poked through my chest as I saw that the buttons on his shirt, usually straining over his toned chest, were comfortably sagging. His shirt fit properly now, but the shirt obviously hadn't grown, so Sherlock must have shrunk. 

He's losing weight! I thought. But he was already so thin! His sharp cheekbones stood out even more and he had disturbingly dark circles under his eyes.

“Sherlock.” No response. “Sherlock!”

“What?”

“Sherlock, why are you sleeping so much all of a sudden?”He opened his mouth to protest. “No no! Don't you dare lie to me!”

“Why do you care so much?” Sherlock snapped at me. “First I don't sleep enough and now I sleep too much! Why don't you just write down exactly what hours I'm supposed to sleep?”

“Sherlock, stop it! You know I just want you to be healthy! Your body is obviously so used to staying awake for days on end and now that you're suddenly forcing it to sleep more than it's awake--”

“I don't need your medical lecture, John, not everyone is your patient!” Sherlock stood and stormed angrily to his room.

“Sherlock? Sherlock! Where are you going?”

“I'm taking a nap!”

Sherlock's POV

I slammed my door shut and hurled myself into my bed, reaching to the nightstand for the sleeping pills. The label said to take 2; I took 6. I had tried taking 8 before, but I realized that it didn't make me fall asleep any faster than 6 and I felt sick after I woke up from the solid 14 hour sleep.

I hugged my pillow and willed it to morph into John's body, for me to fade into the dream world, but I knew it would take 8 minutes and 23 seconds before that happened, so I started counting.

“Twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five--”

“Mmm . . . Sherlock, stop it!” John grumbled sleepily. “Why are you counting?”

“Sorry. I didn't realize I was doing that out loud.”

“Whatever, I'm too tired for this.”

John rolled over, and cuddled next to him contently, thinking he would fall asleep.

“Sherlock.”

“What?”

“You do this every single night. Why can't you sleep through the whole night?”

“I told you, I don't like to sleep.”

“You said you got over that because you're with me, now.”

“Well, I'm not with you when I'm asleep, am I?”

John rolled back over to look at me with concern. “Sherlock, you're not having nightmares again, are you?”

“Of course not. Don't be ridiculous. I never have nightmares.”

“Sherlock, you've never been able to lie to me.” I growled and burried my face in his side. 

“It doesn't matter. I don't need sleep, anyway,” I said, grudgingly thinking of the real John, always trying to tell me what to do, and make sure I'm healthy, and safe . . . Well, that is what this John does, too, but . . . it's different. 

I started gently stroking John's arm, and he sighed defeatedly and nestled in to go back to sleep.


	5. Lestrade

As soon and Sherlock shut the door, I threw the paper down and huffed angrily. “Sodding git,” I grumbled. “Stupid wanker. And he calls me an idiot!”

Nevertheless, I loved the fool, no matter what he thought of me. I'd gradually come to terms with it, first I denied it, then I fought it, then I thought 'who the hell cares? I love the bastard!'

And when you love someone, you take care of them, even if they don't want it.

So I phoned Lestrade.

“What? What is it? Is something wrong?”

“Well, yeah, I just need you to come over.”

“Why? What happened?”

“Just come over whenever you can and I'll explain everything.”

He arrived about twenty minutes later, bursting through the door and trying to catch his breath from running up the stairs. “What? What's happened?” I put my finger to my lips and gestured to Sherlock's door.

“He's sleeping?” I nodded. “I thought he didn't like to sleep?”

“He doesn't. In fact, he usually wouldn't sleep until he started acting drunk and I forced him to bed. Or, at least, he used to do that, but maybe . . . 2 weeks ago, he started sleeping constantly.”

“Why?” Greg asked, sitting across from me on Sherlock's chair.

“I've no idea. I was hoping you could help me figure it out; your guess is as good as mine. He's stopped taking cases, he's stopped doing experiments, he hasn't even touched his violin, and he's losing weight.”

“What weight is there to lose?”

“Exactly! I don't know what to do. He looks like hell. Come on, come look at him!” I decided, in order for him to get the full impact, he needed to see Sherlock himself, so I led him to Sherlock's door and silently opened it, both of us peeking in.

Sherlock was sprawled out across the bed, shirtless, with his sheet tangled around his legs. His face was turned toward us, so we could see the dark circles under his eyes. I looked pitifully at his chest, watching his unusually prominent ribs expand and collapse as he breathed. He twitched and sighed in his sleep: “don't be rediculous . . .”

I closed the door and looked at Greg, who was shaking his head dejectedly. “I don't know what to tell you,” he said. “I hope it's just some bizarre phase, and he'll be back around to his old self in no time.”

I walked back to the lounge and ran a hand through my hair. “Greg, I can't just sit around until this stops, I'm his friend! I have to do something!”

“What can we do? Have you tried talking to him about it?”

“Just earlier. He stormed off for a nap, he won't listen to me.” I sat down and rubbed a face in my hands. “He's taking pills, really powerful ones, and I know he's taking a lot because I've already thrown out an empty bottle. Do you realize what this means? It means he's forcing himself to sleep. So he's not sleeping because he's tired or because his body needs to, there's some other reason.”

“We need to ask him. Maybe he'll tell us?”

“And maybe he'll get angry, storm off, and overdose on sleeping pills.”

“I don't know what to tell you. Just give him a few days, encourage him to be up and about, and see what happens.”

So that's what I did.


	6. Reality Check

“Hurry, John!” I yelled behind me as we rushed through the alley. I was dreaming again, about a case, although I hadn't actually taken this case in the real world. I felt a thrilling rush of adrenaline as we saw flashing lights at the end of the alley. We had to make it there, to safety, before the criminal could get us. More police cars swerved around the alley behind us, trapping the criminal. I felt a surge of triumph, letting no small amount of it show on my face, as we were once again victorious.

I looked back and smiled at John as we came to the mouth of the alley where Lestrade and his ensemble were hurrying forward.

But as always, I missed something. And this was a very big something. Something I hadn't anticipated, something I thought I was above in this perfect world, something impossible, yet all at once, perfectly obvious.

The criminal we were chasing was trapped, panicking. With one last rebellious act, he lifted his gun and took careful aim. 

The loud shot echoed through he walls, drowning out all other sounds and leaving silence. I watched helplessly as John's affectionate smile faded into confusion and agony. He slowly fell to the ground and looked up at me despairingly.

“John . . .” I barely whispered, sinking to my knees and reaching for him. “John . . . no . . .”

“Sh-sherlock,” he gurgled, spitting up blood. I felt hot tears well up in my eyes as I held him close to my chest. The rest of the world, the lights and the sirens and the gunshots and people screaming, faded back into existence.

“John, John, it's going to be okay! It's gonna be okay, you'll be fine!” I said, rocking him back and forth. He shook his head slowly.

“No, Sherlock. I'm dying.”

“No, no, NO!” I sobbed.

“Sh-sherlock . . . it wasn't real, anyway, remember? It's just a dream. The real John is upstairs, sleeping, and he loves you.”

“John, stop! You're not dying! You're going to be fine!” I looked up at Greg, screaming into his walkie-talkie for an ambulance. When I looked back down, John's eyes were staring blankly, his body was still, and the pulsating spring of blood from his chest had stopped.

Even in my dream, I was suddenly aware of almost being outside looking in. I watched myself wail louder than I had in my entire life and hold John close to me, rocking back and forth, tears streaming down my face. Greg tried to comfort me, the paramedics tried to take John from me, but I was hysterical mess. 

Somehow they managed to pry John's body away from me, and I was taken to the hospital. I paced the hall while Greg tried to talk me back to reality (well, in the dream, anyway).  
“Sherlock, calm down, please,” Greg tried. 

“Nononononononnonononononono,” I chanted, pulling on my hair. “I need to fix this. I have to fix this!” I decided that maybe if I woke up and fell asleep again, it would all be fixed. Luckily for me, Greg thought it would be a good idea to have me sedated and put in one of the rooms, so I fell asleep quickly.

“John?” I called into my dark bedroom. “JOHN!” I threw the covers off me and ran to John's room. He was sitting up and rubbing his eyes with the lamp on as I burst through the door.

“Sherlock, what is it? What's wrong?” Seeing him alive and well sent an overwhelming feeling of relief through me. Without thinking, I threw myself onto the bed and wrapped my arms around him, sobbing like a child. John slowly put his arms around me and gently stroked my hair, like he did in my dream. “It's okay, Sherlock, it was just a dream, it's over now.” But that just made me cry harder.

“John . . .” I moaned into his shirt. 

“It's okay, Sherlock, I'm right here.” We stayed like that for a while longer, until I fell asleep, and John turned off the lamp and laid down with me.

=====================I don't know why I'm page breaking here, just dream world now==================

“John . . . John?” I said groggily, emerging from a heavily sedated sleep in a hospital bed. Lestrade was at my bedside, looking at me sympathetically.

“Sherlock . . .”

“He's okay, isn't he? He's fine, right? When can we leave the hospital?”

“No, Sherlock, listen to me . . . John--”

“Don't. Don't say that . . .” I started crying again.

“Sherlock, it's going to be okay--”

“No, it's not! I can't live without him, he's everything to me. This can't happen, it's impossible.” Greg stood up and put a hand gently on my shoulder, but I moved away from him. I only wanted John to touch me like that.

“Go back to sleep, Sherlock. We'll talk tomorrow.”


	7. Plan

One week later . . . 

“Sherlock . . .” I sighed, looking at the other man sitting on couch with his hands steepled at his chin. He hadn't slept in a week. First he only sleeps when it's necessary, then he sleeps all the time, even resorting to drugs to help him sleep, and now he suddenly refuses to even nod off! “I'm calling your brother.”

. . .

“I really am.”

. . .

“The phone is in my hand.” Sherlock continued to ignore me, but I knew he was probably listening, so I took my phone out to the stairs.

“What is it?” Mycroft answered, obviously aware that it was urgent on account of I typically avoid conversing with Mycroft.

“It's Sherlock. Something has got to be done about him.”

“ . . . I'll have a car pick you up in three minutes.”

“Send one for Lestrade, too.”

“Lestrade? Who is that?”

“Detective Inspector Lestrade, he gives Sherlock cases. I think he might be able to help. I trust you won't have any problems finding and kidnapping him?”

“Not at all.” The line clicked off and I opened the door to the living room and stuck my head in to grab my coat.

“Sherlock . . .” I said, he was now standing at the window with one hand on the wall to steady himself, though every few seconds he swayed dangerously. “I'm going out. I'll be back soon. . . Just, please, just at least take a short nap. Twenty minutes. On the couch, even, I-- . . .” I shook my head and turned to leave.

Naturally, a sleek black car was waiting outside. This time Anthea wasn't in it. The car took me to another mysteriously deserted location, where Mycroft was leaning against his umbrella in front of a fully set table with three chairs. I nodded politely to him as I approached.

“Feeding me, this time?” I asked.

“I thought this matter might require a bit more . . . formality, shall we say? After all, we haven't had this type of crisis since a time Sherlock likes to refer to as 'before John'.”

Another black car rolled to a stop, a disgruntled Greg pulling himself out of the back seat before it had even been put into park. Anthea got out elegantly from the other side, tapping away on her blackberry. Greg raised is eyebrows at me, stopping part way through an angry demand to know what was going on.

“Greg,” I greeted pleasantly.

“What's all this about?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at Mycroft.

“Sherlock, of course,” Mycroft answered. “I am Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's brother.” He extended a hand politely, but Lestrade walked past him to me.

“Is this alright?” he asked me quietly, though Mycroft could obviously still hear him.

“It's fine. He's kidnapped me loads of times.” The three of us sat at the table, and Mycroft gestured to me to begin.

“So. Sherlock. Something is definitely wrong with him.”

“Still sleeping all hours?” Lestrade asked.

“Oh, no, he's over that,” I replied. “Now he's all about staying up. Not like normal, no, he won't even start nodding off without popping more pills to keep him awake.”

“He was taking pills to make him sleep,” Mycroft observed, brows furrowing with concern. I laughed humorlessly.

“Keeps the bottles next to each other, in the medicine cabinet. He's going to kill himself, and I won't let that happen.”

“Nor will I,” Mycroft agreed.

“What can we do?” Lestrade interjected. “He's the most hard-headed stubborn man I have ever met, I've not a doubt he'll refuse to cooperate in any way he can.”

“And he's not likely to tell us what's wrong, either,” Mycroft said. “He hasn't willingly expressed his feelings since he was born.”

“Maybe he won't tell us,” I thought, “but he'd tell someone else.”

“Someone else?” Lestrade asked. “If he won't trust his closest friends with his feelings, what makes you think he'll trust someone else?”

“That's just it: we're his closest friends! Well, maybe not Mycroft.” Mycroft frowned at me. “You see, his feelings are affected by us, and we affect his feelings. He's probably afraid we'll hurt him some how. I think, maybe, if he told a stranger, someone who isn't involved, he won't have to worry about what they'll think or do. I know it works. I've gone to therapy. I could have talked to my mum or my sister or a friend, but I didn't think they'd understand. I thought they would feel sorry for me and try to help me, but . . . I suppose I thought they would be biased, already knowing things about me. I mean, Mycroft, you were the first person to figure out that I wasn't traumatized from the war, I missed it. Anyone else would have thought that was absurd, I was so mellow and calm all the time.”

“It does make sense,” Lestrade conceded. “But he'll never talk to anyone.”

“On the contrary, dear Inspector, one of natures most useful paradoxes: the most stubborn people are the easiest to manipulate.”

“How do you mean?”

“The art of manipulation is a gift I like to think I possess. Have you ever noticed that in a museum with signs that instruct you not to touch things, it seems so much more tempting to touch everything?” I chuckled knowingly.

“Who the hell are we gonna make him talk to?” Lestrade asked.

“I have a perfect plan!”


	8. Getting Somewhere

“Sherlock, I'm having an old friend over today, alright?”

“Mmm.”

“. . . You think maybe you ought to get dressed?”

“Mmm. Yes.” Sherlock turned away from staring out the window and went to his room. John tried to straighten up, seriously doubting the integrity of this plan. Sherlock was dressed within minutes and back to staring out the window. The doorbell rang, making John jump.

“I-uh, that's . . . probably her,” He said stupidly before going to answer the door. Ella Thompson, his old therapist, greeted him with a smile.

“Hey, good to see you!”

“Hi, thanks so much for coming,” He whispered. “He's upstairs.” On their way up, he sent a text to Mycroft saying that the plan was under way.

“Sherlock, this is Ella Thompson. Ella, this is Sherlock.” John introduced them briefly and nervously. He had Ella sit in his chair and stood awkwardly for a moment before his phone started to ring. He took it out of his pocket and looked at it. “Oh, I'm sorry, I have to get this, sorry,” he stammered, stepping out into the hall.

Ella sat quietly, looking at Sherlock's sickly form. “So, you're the famous 'Sherlock',” she commented. 

“I'm not stupid.”

Ella tilted her head. “I . . . didn't say you were.”

“You think I don't know why you're here.” He finally turned around to face her. “He wants you to talk to me. I don't need therapy.”

“Perhaps you're right. But I think it would make John happy.”

“You're not even going to deny it?”

“John said you'd figure it out. Why don't you sit down and talk to me for a while? Then you can go back and stare out the window and I can tell John you answered some of my questions.”  
Sherlock huffed impatiently and sat across from her in his chair.

“So. How long do you think you can go without sleeping?”

“Approximately four days from today.”

“And after that?”

“I'll either overdose on my medication or I'll pass out from exhaustion.”

“Sherlock, why don't you tell me why you don't want to sleep?”

“ . . . You wouldn't believe me.”

“Sherlock, I'm a therapist. I believe anything anyone tells me is true, to them at least.” Sherlock looked at her challengingly.

“Fine, then. When I go to sleep, I enter another world, parallel to this one. Previously, I found this alternate world much more pleasant than the real one. I slept as much as I could, but . . . something changed. I don't like it anymore.”

“What changed?”

Sherlock smirked at her. “Now, that, I really can't tell you.”

“Why not?”

“Because you'll tell John and I don't want John to know.” Ella leaned forward.

“Listen. Technically you're not my patient, but patient confidentiality still applies. I won't tell John anything you don't want me to. At least let me tell him I helped you a little bit.”  
Sherlock very uncharacteristically pushed a hand through his hair and groaned. “Why should I tell you?”

“Whatever this is, it's taken over your life. You're not going on cases, you're not playing your violin, or doing experiments; don't you want to get back to normal? Maybe I can't help you, but maybe I can. I think we should at least try.”

Sherlock sat quietly for a long moment. 

“ . . . I love John,” he finally admitted. “I . . . I love him. In my dreams . . . he loved me, too. . . But he died, and I can't be in a world where he's dead.”

Ella nodded to herself as she regarded him. “Sherlock . . . I know this isn't what you want to hear, but I think you should tell John about these feelings.” Sherlock snapped his head up to glare at her.

“No, you stupid idiot! Then he'll leave me! That's what I'm trying to avoid, in case that somehow got passed you!”

“You don't know that, Sherlock. He cares deeply for you--”

“But he doesn't love me, not the way I love him. He'll either leave me and never speak to me again, or he'll feel sorry for me and force himself to stay with me even though he wants to get married and have kids just like everyone else because he's such a kind, generous, selfless, stupid soldier!”

Ella sighed and tried a different approach. “Sherlock, if you love him so much, how can you hurt him so much?” she said mildly accusingly. Sherlock furrowed his brow at her.  
“What do you mean?”

“Can't you see how it hurts him to see you like this? It's tearing him apart, Sherlock. Now, I believe we can get you back to having normal dreams, but you're going to have to put forth a lot of effort. If you won't do it yourself, do it for John.”

“ . . . I suppose I could try. For John.”

“For John,” Ella agreed.


	9. Therapy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry it's been so long!!! I just moved to Logan and started college and my laptop BROKE so I haven't been able to write much! But here it is!

“How are you going to help me?” Sherlock asked. Ella's eyes lit up with mildly hidden excitement.

“There is one technique that I've been experimenting with recently, and since this has to do with your subconscious, I think it should work.”

“What?” Sherlock asked impatiently.

“It's a form of guided hypnosis.” Sherlock quirked his eyebrow skeptically. “We may as well give it a try, right? So, lay down on the couch and get comfortable.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes but did as he was told. “Now, I want you to go somewhere safe. It could be a childhood memory, or a peaceful scene.”

Sherlock entered his mind palace and chose a quiet room with a balcony opening over a warm, breezy garden. He sat on a lounge chair on the balcony and sighed impatiently. He was somewhat surprised when he looked up to find Ella sitting across on another chair.

“Where are you?” she asked calmly.

“In my mind palace-- on a balcony over the garden.” Ella seemed a little confused at this.

“Tell me about your mind palace.”

“I organize everything in here. Everything has a place. It helps me with cases.”

“What about your dream world? Is that in your mind palace?”

“Erm, no, at least, I don't think so.”

“Okay, I need you to try to go to the dream world. Now, if anything becomes too much for you, all you have to do is snap your fingers, and you'll go back to your safe place.”

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and tried to find a way to the dream world, with Ella following him. He eventually found his way to a part of the palace he didn't recognize. He walked through the door and opened his eyes to find himself back in the flat, sitting across from Ella. It looked a little different, though; it was in quite a bit of disrepair and the windows were covered with heavy quilts to block out any natural light.

“I think this must be it,” he told Ella. 

“Describe the scene to me,” she commanded.

“It's the flat. It's messy, things are broken, but everything is covered in dust, like it hasn't been unsettled for a while. The windows are covered so no light can come in.”

He heard footsteps coming up the stairs then, and the door opened to reveal Mycroft. He seemed surprised to see Ella there.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock greeted.

“Mycroft? Who's Mycroft?” Ella asked.

“Mycroft, this is my therapist, Ella Thompson. Ella, this is my brother Mycroft.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Mycroft said politely.

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock asked.

“I've come to check on you,” Mycroft replied exasperatedly, “like I do every afternoon. I'm surprised to see you've taken Gregory's advice.”

“Sherlock,” Ella interjected. “I want you to tell Mycroft that this isn't real. Tell him this is just a dream.”

“Mycroft; this isn't real. It's just a dream.”

“What?” he huffed, turning accusingly to Ella. “What sort of lies are you feeding him?”

“It's not a lie,” Sherlock insisted. “None of this is real. It's just a figment of my subconscious.”

Mycroft continued glaring at Ella. “You're supposed to be helping him accept John's death, not helping him deny it!”

“No! John's not dead! He's probably outside with you right now!”

“Remember, Sherlock,” Ella reminded him, “if it's too much, just snap your fingers.”

Mycroft continued talking to Sherlock, but he wasn't listening. He was distracted by large cracks appearing around the room. He began to argue with Mycroft, convincing him and himself that it was only a dream.

As he argued, the cracks continued to grow, until the entire room was crumbling around them. Even Mycroft cracked and crumbled, which was rather horrifying. 

Furthermore, the missing pieces of the room left behind nothing but a bright white light. Sherlock stood from his chair and tried to look for an escape.

“Sherlock!” Ella said sternly. “Snap your fingers!”

Sherlock did as he was told and found himself back on the balcony, safe and sound. He quickly exited his mind palace and found himself curled up on his chair.

“Sherlock. Are you alright?”

“I'm fine,” he said, straightening up. “I think . . . I think it's gone.”

“Really?” Ella said, genuinely surprised it had been so fast. Usually getting rid of delusions took several sessions, sometimes spanning out over months or even years. Of course, she was warned that Sherlock was a special case.

“Yes, I think so.”

“Good. Now, I want you to go into your room, get in your pajamas, get into bed, and sleep until you wake up naturally. Understand?”

Sherlock nodded and left to his room. Ella shook her head; as strange as all this was, she had to admit it definitely wasn't the strangest patient experience she'd had.

**Author's Note:**

> Did you finish the whole chapter? Or at least skim through it? THANKS!!! Tell me what you think!!!


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